The King's Hand (6 page)

“I wish I had never told her!” he snarled.

There was a flash of bright light against the eastern sky, followed by a loud crack. Startled, they both looked towards it.

“What was that?”

“I don't know.”

They watched the sky together for a few moments. The echo of the sound died away into the distance.

Aeryn pressed his hand. “Have you heard from Ladomer recently?”

“He was posted to Dunthruik not long after I arrived.”

Aeryn looked at him in surprise. “What for?”

“He has become the Right Hand's lieutenant,” Eamon answered. “He's always carrying paper.”

“I always imagined him becoming a Hand, not a paper-boy,” Aeryn mused. She looked up at him with a smile. “He was certainly the more likely candidate for being Handed, out of the pair of you.”

“That's what I always told him,” Eamon agreed with a laugh. “Did you ever try to warn him?” he asked suddenly.

“About joining the Gauntlet?” Aeryn's brow furrowed. “I tried,” she whispered. “He didn't seem to understand. Maybe he didn't want to. He told me not to worry myself with wayfarer talk. Something about what he said frightened me.” She drew a deep breath. “I never spoke to him about it after that. I think it was because he frightened me that I didn't speak to you sooner. You are so alike… I was worried what you would think, of it and of me.”

Eamon matched her gaze. “I'm sorry. I doubt that I would have had kind words for you then.”

They paused for a moment by a tall tree. Eamon heard the tributary running nearby in the dark. The camp was lit like a field of blossoming stars. Indistinct calls ran along the more distant River water. He remembered Hughan's words from that morning, and wondered if another convoy of supplies was coming into the camp. Where did the Easters manage to find the supplies at this time of the year?

“I'm glad that you came,” Aeryn said quietly. “I'm sorry for what you've been through in Dunthruik for us. After all that, you're still you.”

“It was a near thing,” Eamon confided.

Suddenly they heard cries and looked up. A group of guards surged through the camp towards them. The men – a mix of wayfarers and Easters – bore torches.

Eamon looked across at Aeryn in surprise. “What's happening?”

“I don't know,” she began, looking as surprised as he felt. As she spoke, the men reached them and nocked arrows to their bows.

“Step away from her,
Hand!”
snarled one.

Eamon and Aeryn stared.

“I'm sorry?”

“You heard me, bloody trumped-up Glove! Step away or we will loose!”

Eamon stepped to the side. Bewildered, Aeryn walked to the soldiers. One snatched her and pushed her behind them. They demanded to know if she was hurt.

“No –”

“Give yourself up, Hand!”

“Give myself up?”

“
Do it now!
”

“I give myself up,” Eamon said incredulously. Hadn't he already given himself up? He felt the urge to point this out, but the glinting arrowheads suggested this might not be wise.

A band of men surged forward and bound him. They seemed afraid to touch him.

“Stop!” Aeryn cried. “Whose authority do you have for this?”

If they answered her he did not hear them do so; she was bustled away to safety and he could not see more past the men who bound him. The ropes pulled tight. One man struck him.

“I'm hardly resisting!” he cried, but they didn't hear him. He was hit again.

The men dragged him forward and took him to the heart of the camp. They hauled him bodily to the King's tent, and hurled him inside.

Hughan was not there, but Eamon did not go ungreeted. Anastasius stood by the long table, his shadow cast eerily on the ground by the brazier. His eyes flashed with anger.

“Lord Anastasius,” Eamon began.

“You treacherous, black-clad bastard!” The Easter came forward and struck him hard across the face.

“What is the meaning of this?” Eamon yelled.

“I told him to have you guarded!” Anastasius exploded. Eamon cowered before his fury. “I told him that you could not be trusted and that you were here for evil purpose. I counselled your execution and he defended you. Now perhaps you will get what you deserve.”

“What have I done?” Eamon demanded. His head swimming, he could barely focus his eyes on the man.

Anastasius stared icily at him. “How very typical of a Hand,” he spat. “What have you done? You spend the whole day harping on the value of the lives of your men, and then, in a moment, you obliterate thirty of mine!”

Eamon's heart slowed sickeningly. “What?”

Anastasius struck him again. Blood trickled down his face.

“You dare deny it?” the Easter cried.

“I saw you with my own eyes.”

“What did I do?” Eamon cried.

“You knew that men were bringing supplies over the bridge tonight,” Anastasius howled. “You killed them all when you destroyed it!”

Eamon stared. He remembered the River bridge. It was vital to the camp's logistics.

Suddenly he remembered the light and crack that he had heard with Aeryn.

His stomach churned. He looked at Anastasius and shook his head.

“I-I knew nothing of it,” he stammered. “Of this charge, my lord, I am innocent!”

Anastasius glowered. “Even the Star of Brenuin has not the power to make you innocent of this, Hand. He is coming here and he will denounce you, renounce you, and cast your corpse back to the filth-ridden city from whence it came. I will see to it!”

Eamon stared in terror. He had done nothing. Anastasius towered over him. It was only the King's edict that kept the Easter from exacting the vengeance he violently desired to take.

The voice in his mind exulted in his fear.
Your faith is broken, Eben's son!

And, as Eamon trembled and waited for the King, he believed it.

C
HAPTER
III

B
lood trickled down his face. His heart pounded. Anastasius stood over him, a dark edifice, his green eyes glinting fiercely, forbidding defiance.

Eamon matched that glare. The more he considered the situation, the more ridiculous it seemed to him. He had done nothing and could prove that he had been nowhere near the bridge. Could they cast doubt on him when they found that he had been with Aeryn? And yet…

How was it that he had been seen?

Eamon fixed the Easter with a sudden and suspicious glance. The Easters had built the bridge. What if – however unlikely it might be – the bridge had been poorly made? What if the fault belonged to the Easters and they were simply looking for someone to blame? They distrusted and hated him – perhaps they meant to scapegoat him.

Though he knew little about Anastasius, already he felt sure the man was no liar. The smouldering Easter lord was an ally of the King – Hughan would not ally himself to evil men. If Anastasius
said
that he had seen Eamon destroy the bridge, it would be the truth… but how could it be?

Whatever the case, Hughan could not choose to sacrifice his alliance with the Easters by believing a Hand over an Easter lord. Eamon and Anastasius both knew it, just as they both knew that the price of Eamon's treachery would be death. Anastasius sneered with triumphant disgust.

Run
, the voice told him.
Break your bonds, strike down this witless fool, and return to me. I will give you the strength, Eben's son.
The words made him shiver.
I will show you mercy.

Eamon shook his head. He felt his vision flickering as though he neared the plain – he would
not
go.

“The King's grace protects me!” He did not care who heard him. “You can no longer counsel me, voice of Edelred!” He called it by the name that Hughan had given it. Though there was treachery afoot, he had not committed it. There was no need to run; he would face the King.

The voice fell silent, as though it reviled being recognized and loathed Eamon's submission to the King. Then it was gone.

Eamon looked up with clearer sight to see Anastasius again. The Easter watched him still, but now Eamon felt able to bear the accusatory stare.

He heard cries outside. As men passed into the tent, the smell of burning wood wafted in on the wind.

It was then that Hughan came, wet and muddied, smoke caught in his clothes. As he saw Eamon, bound and kneeling before Anastasius, anger filled his face. Eamon bade his heart hold firm.

“This is the man responsible, Star of Brenuin.” Anastasius sounded calmer. His statement was presented factually to the King. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

Hughan shot his ally a fearsome look. Anastasius received it, barely flinching, and then both men looked at Eamon, the lord with anger and the King with unreadable blue eyes. Eamon pinned all his hope on the latter.

“Follow me, Eamon,” Hughan said, his voice quiet.

Why hasn't he unbound you? He thinks you guilty, Eben's son!

Eamon turned from it. Steadying himself, he rose to his feet and followed Hughan out of the tent. Anastasius stayed close behind him.

The King led him into the night air. The reek of burning was strong now. Eamon was struck by a sudden, painful memory of the pyre where Aeryn's father had been bound. He remembered the feel of the faggots in his hands.

Not far away he saw light. Hughan led him towards it. He followed until the King halted but paces from the site of the destruction with which he was charged. Eamon stopped and stared.

Where the bridge – a broad line of planked and anchored boats – had stood but hours before, Eamon saw ruins and flames. Broken timbers lay everywhere, shattered as though a tremendous force had ripped them apart. The spokes of a cartwheel lay forlorn on the far bank. Flames still burned on the splintered wood, and screams and moans filled the air, for the banks were flooded not just with water but with men. Some bore torches, necessary now that the initial blaze had died down. Others stood half in the freezing water, dragging out men who had fallen from the pontoon. Men lay shrieking and burned on the bank; others lay pale and still. They would never call again. Eamon guessed that a number had been dragged away by the River, though he could not guess how many. He saw the wretched body of a horse snagged in a tangle of trees and branches, its mane bloodied and blackened. His stomach turned.

He looked back to the rescue efforts in the water and saw a man surging up out of it, dragging with him the broken body of a soldier. Eamon could not help but stare as he recognized the rescuer: Feltumadas. His dark hair was slicked back with sweat and muddy water.

The Easter lord passed the soldier he was half-carrying to one of Hughan's men, then waded back into the water, calling for help as he spotted more men struggling in the cold.

Eamon's being was filled with the howls of the wounded, the smell of smouldering flesh and wood, and another bitter smell which he did not know. They choked him.

For a moment he doubted himself. What if the voice of Edelred had usurped him utterly, even just for a moment…?

No. He would not have destroyed the bridge – he could not and did not do it. As his racing thoughts stilled he felt Anastasius glowering. Dimly, he became aware of Hughan watching him.

“Did you do this, Eamon?” The King's voice was soft, neither accusing nor excusing him.

Eamon turned to look at him.

“No, sire.” He did not falter. “I did not.”

There was a long silence. Anastasius watched him with a glare that might shred flesh, but he would not retract what he had said. He had told the truth.

Hughan held his gaze for what seemed an interminably long time. Eamon matched it, feeling as though the King was searching and testing his soul. Doubtless Hughan had also heard – and maybe seen – that a Hand had destroyed the bridge, and that the only Hand in the camp was also the King's First Knight.

As First Knight, Eamon was answerable to the King alone. Still, he was painfully aware of the men on the banks staring at him and his heavy black cloak.

“Murdering, black-robed bastard!” one screamed.

“Murderer!”

Others joined the chorus until the air was rife with cursing. Eamon could not hide from the words; each utterance fell upon him like a blow. He tried to steady himself against them. Every man believed that he was guilty, that his innocence was inconceivable. He had been tainted by Dunthruik and could never be redeemed.

“Death to you, and your bastard house!”

“Enough!” Hughan's voice cut across the air, his eyes filled with anger. “Wish death on no man's house. Even if he is guilty, his sons are not.”

Silence fell. None answered the King.

Awed, Eamon held his breath as the King turned to him.

“I did not do this, Hughan,” he whispered. “I swear it to you.”

At last, the look in Hughan's eyes softened. Eamon breathed out in relief. For the King, his word was enough.

“You believe him?” Anastasius stood, ashen with anger. “You believe him!”

“Yes, Lord Anastasius. I do.”

“He was seen at the bridge by dozens of men – scores of men… yet you believe
him
?”

Eamon turned to him. “You question the King?” he cried. The words had left his mouth before he even knew what he was saying.

“Peace, Eamon,” Hughan told him softly. “It is his right to speak just as it is yours.”

Eamon hung his head in disbelief. The throned would never offer such words. In Dunthruik, Anastasius would have easily lost his life for such insolence.

“And I speak this,” Anastasius answered grimly. “He is a Hand. He is responsible for what has happened here. Perhaps you have no care for the lives of your allies,” he added darkly, “but you should have a care for your own dead, Star of Brenuin.”